


Hearty

by RowboatCop



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Clark Gregg's Dominos Commercial, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Hotel Sex, Oral Sex, Play Fighting, Resolved Sexual Tension, Silly, Skoulson + junkfood, Skye likes pizza, Undercover as a Couple, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vaginal Fingering, wrestling on a bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 18:05:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4635027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/pseuds/RowboatCop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hearty,” Coulson jokes as their tiny entrees are set down.</p><p>“We are so getting pizza after this.”</p><p>“I would never stand between you and pizza,” he answers, smirk playing around the edges of his mouth.</p><p>(Clark Gregg's Domino's commercial + Skoulson undercover = this ridiculous flirtiness.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearty

“ _Look_ at that woman’s necklace,” she whispers, trying not to stare too hard at the woman walking towards them. Her blonde hair is pulled up off her neck and her dress cut low, showing a large teardrop diamond on a chain that seems to be made of a complex pattern of other perfect teardrop diamonds.

Coulson raises his eyebrows, clearly impressed but not losing his shit like she is. But he’s used to this kind of stuff, she guesses, and she’s _really_ not.

“I bet I could have fed myself for over a decade with what that thing cost.”

He smiles at her.

“Yeah, you probably could have.” Like it’s charming or something.

“I’m just saying, there are people going hungry while she walks around with the GDP of a small country on her neck.”

“It’s not fair,” he agrees, looking at the opulence around him. “None of this is fair.”

“I kinda thought this was your scene, though?”

He laughs.

“No. My _scene_ ,” he pauses on the word, says it like it’s foreign, “was always a bit lower end than this.”

“Lower end how?”

“Cheaper,” he sums up after thinking for a moment. “A lot cheaper.”

“But still ridiculously expensive?”

“Probably a lot more expensive than you’re used to,” he allows. She can’t tell whether he looks like he feels bad about that or not.

This is a bad topic, though, because it just draws attention to how uncomfortable she is, sitting in this restaurant in a black dress that feels too tight, and her discomfort doesn’t really fit her cover.

Her unease isn’t helped by the fact that the mark isn’t here, yet, and this is just recon, which means they aren’t even exactly undercover. There are fake names — or at least, Coulson has a fake name because the credit card is under William Matthews — but mostly this is just some weird gray area where Coulson and Skye are on a date, sort of, and she doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

She takes a sip of her wine — really expensive in a way that she doesn’t even know how to enjoy.

“You should have brought someone else,” she tells him. “I think anyone could tell I don’t belong here from a mile away.”

“That’s not true.”

“Maybe if this were a Pretty Woman situation.”

Coulson’s smile at her joke is _really_ uncomfortable.

“All anyone sees when they look at you is a gorgeous young woman in a pretty dress.”

And it’s not like Skye has ever worried that she’s not attractive, but people have rarely told her that, at least in situations where they weren’t trying to sleep with her.

“You think I’m gorgeous?”

“You’re just fishing, now,” he accuses her, but with a smile that says that if she _did_ keep fishing, he would say lots of nice things. Probably.

She doesn’t fish, though, because she can only handle Phil Coulson saying so many nice things about her before she gets all moony.

Whatever, she’s long since come to grips with being pathetic about her boss.

His words give her a little boost of confidence, though, make her more able to sit up in her chair and lean towards him. More like he’s her boyfriend, like she’s used to this — to sitting across from him and flirting.

Of course, sitting across from Coulson isn’t all that strange, but the flirting part is. The flirting in a fancy dress _definitely_ is.

She looks over at the woman with the ridiculous diamond necklace, at the way she’s playing with a strand of her hair as she gazes across the table at her date.

Skye mimics the move, because now she apparently needs flirting lessons.

(Yeah, it’s been a while, and she hasn’t done it since she cut her hair for sure.)

Still, as she leans forward onto the table, finger twirling through her hair, she can’t help but be a little gratified at the way Coulson’s eyes wander down, as though taking her in.

The dress is May’s, which means it’s a bit too small for her, and therefore super _super_ tight, like _almost_ restricting her breathing kind of tight. The black velvety fabric is cinched under her breasts with a diamond-studded detail, and it’s low cut. _Really_ low cut so she keeps seeing the exposed inner curves of her breasts every time she looks down.

(They look really good, okay, which is why she keeps kind of looking.)

Bobbi had told her that with the diamonds on her dress, she was best off without competing jewelry around her neck, so the necklace that rests just above her decolletage is a single simple, small stone on a gold chain.

It seems to be doing its work, though, drawing Coulson’s eyes down to where the dress actually makes it seem like she has boobs.

(Discomfort aside, she doesn’t mind that part.)

“It’s Bobbi’s,” she tells him.

“Hmm?” His gaze wanders back up, eyes locked on hers.

“The necklace. It’s Bobbi’s.”

He swallows.

“It’s nice.”

“I suppose you would have given it to me, though. For our anniversary?”

“You wouldn’t want something bigger?”

His eyes drift over to their friend with the entire diamond mine strapped to her neck.

“No,” she shakes her head thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t want my jewelry to be prettier than me, right?”

“Not possible.”

It makes the breath stop in her chest, her skin prickle all over her body, and that’s got to be bad.

She’s never gone undercover as someone’s girlfriend, but she’s pretty sure you’re supposed to keep a line between your cover and your real feelings.

(She’s not supposed to have the real feelings anyways, which makes it extra bad.)

So she tries to make the line more distinct.

“Tell me what William Matthews likes to do in his spare time.”

Coulson chokes on a sip of water, eyes wide as he looks across the table at her, and it takes her a moment to realize where his mind has gone.

“What William likes to do _besides me_ ,” she amends, struggling to bite back a laugh into a coy smile.

(She’s not good at coy, not really, but she fakes it.)

It takes Coulson a moment to gather himself.

“He has a yacht,” Coulson offers. “He likes to take it out on the weekends.”

“But I suppose I’ve been on plenty of yachts, hmm?”

“William’s is _very_ impressive, though.”

“It’s a really big one?”

“Bigger than average,” he agrees. “But it’s really about how you use it, more than the size.”

A little almost _snort_ comes out as she tries to keep herself from laughing.

“I take it William knows how to use it?”

He raises his eyebrows, eyes dancing even though he looks nowhere near as close to laughter as she is.

Luckily, she’s saved from whatever he might have come up with by the arrival of their waiter and their first course.

 

* * *

“The eagle is landing,” Hunter’s voice crackles in their ears, and Skye rolls her eyes.

She has to turn on the microphone function on her earpiece, a discrete scratching behind her ear, in order to broadcast.

“Must you?”

“I’m on a stakeout. That’s how spies talk, isn’t it?”

She and Coulson lock eyes over the table, sharing an exasperated look.

“I see him,” she announces quietly, looking past Coulson to the door where their man has just walked in with a woman on his arm.

(And she could tell that Coulson was weird about sitting with his back to the door, but she appreciates that he let her have this view, that he trusts her enough to be the one with his back to potential danger.)

“Any idea who the woman is?”

“Not a clue,” Hunter answers, and Skye scratches her ear again, turns off the broadcast function of her microphone.

“They’re being seated at my eleven o’clock,” she tells Coulson quietly, “almost at the back wall.”

He pulls the black framed glasses off his face and cleans them with a cloth in his top pocket, secretly turning on the tiny camera.

When he puts them back on, he picks up his fork and takes a bite, doing really well at nonchalance. She, on the other hand, sort of wants to wave at Simmons and Bobbi, who are watching the feed tonight.

(Coulson’s a good spy. Way better than her, but she figures it’s only fair he gets the one thing.)

“How many?”

“Just him and a date. Woman, dark hair, probably mid-thirties.”

He nods, sets down his fork, and rises from the table.

“Don’t be long,” she tells him, back to flirtatious, back to convincing anyone watching that they’re here on a date.

She watches as he winds his way to the bathroom, getting a good shot of the couple so Bobbi and Simmons can run her face through Skye’s recognition software.

This is basically it, the extent of their mission —  to record who the mark talks to, to find anyone who might be selling names off of the previous Index list.

It’s not a bad mission, she supposes, though the tiny plate of frisee salad leaves something to be desired, even if it’s really tasty with little pieces of really good bacon.

With her tight dress, though, it’s probably better that she’s not meant to eat very much.

When Coulson gets back to his seat, she’s already finished her salad, and she watches him eat the last few bites of his, sliding the fork past his lips with a little smile.

“This is great,” he tells her, but she can see his disappointment at how quickly it’s gone.

“There’s not enough of it,” she offers, and Coulson nods but shrugs.

“Quality over quantity?”

“Some of us need the quantity,” Skye grumbles, getting a laugh from across the table as a waiter shows up to collect salad plates and replace them with the main course — a small piece of beef served over a few green beans and tiny roasted potatoes, some kind of sauce artfully presented on the empty two thirds of the plate.

“See, _hearty_ ,” Coulson jokes.

Skye tries to scowl at him and his stupid face, but a smile gets through.

And it’s delicious, it’s true — perfectly cooked and flavorful and everything — but it’s also _nothing_.

She watches their mark as they eat — taking slow, small bites to make it last, since they’re sitting here until he leaves.

Small bites don’t make dinner any more filling, that’s for sure.

“We are _so_ getting pizza after this.”

“I would never stand between you and pizza,” he answers, smirk playing around the edges of his mouth.

She’s suddenly self-conscious about the complaint, about the demand.

“It’s not like I’m a total pig or something.”

Coulson frowns at her.

“I never thought that.”

“I had a hard workout today, you know. And when I use —” She wiggles her fingers in the air. “When I use them, I have to eat a lot.”

“I know.” He cocks his head to the side. “Even if you didn’t, you wouldn’t have to apologize for wanting pizza.”

Skye rolls her eyes because she’s supposed to be better than this, than being insecure about food and what someone thinks of her.

Especially Coulson, who has seen her inhale a large pizza by herself on more than one occasion in the past few months.

But she can’t help wondering, sometimes, what he must think of her — of how uncomfortable she is in a nice dress, of how much she doesn’t fit places like this.

(In a way, it’s good, though. Since she hasn’t been able to convince herself not to be in love with him, it’s good to remember that she’s not the type of woman he would go for. It makes it easier to be herself, to put it aside, to just enjoy being with him.)

“I know. I just…” She shakes her head, decides to let all this crap go. “I just really need to get out of this dress and eat an entire pizza.”

“That can be arranged,” he promises, smiling too wide. “We have the room next door all night.”

They’re meant to hang out at the attached hotel after their mark leaves, at least until May and Mack declare it to be safe.

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

“I know.”

 

* * *

There are a few options for dessert, and of course Coulson decides to order the one with seven million kinds of chocolate — mousse and ganache and shavings and foam. Whatever that means.

“I’ll just have some of yours,” she decides. She’s going to have pizza after all.

He laughs like she just told a joke.

“Fat chance.”

“You’re not going to share your chocolate?”

“Are you going to share your pizza?”

“You could get your own pizza,” she reasons with him.

“I don’t want my own pizza. I just want a slice of yours.”

“A bite of your dessert for a slice of my pizza?”

“That seems fair to me,” Coulson decides.

It doesn’t seem fair to her, not at all, but she kind of thinks she can talk him down later — Coulson usually caves to what she wants, anyways.

(Which, for the record, is something she very rarely takes advantage of. Only very serious matters, like pizza, necessitate such manipulation.)

“Deal,” she decides.

Of course it’s just as small as everything else they’ve been served tonight, but it’s beautiful, too.

She watches as Coulson carefully collects a perfect bite on his spoon and then slides it past his lips.

“Mmmm,” he groans around the spoon, and a moment later he slides it back out of his mouth — his tongue follows, lapping at some invisible speck of chocolate left on the back.

She sort of envies the spoon.

“Good?”

“Amazing,” he corrects her. “You have to try it.”

She watches as he collects another bite on the spoon — the same spoon that he just _licked_ — and something in her lower belly clenches as he holds it out to her, offering.

Slowly, Skye leans forward across the table and accepts the bite, and her eyes slip shut at the intense chocolate on her tongue. When he tugs the spoon backwards, she leans forward more, almost chasing after it as he slips it past her lips.

There’s stillness for a moment as she swallows.

“Oh.”

“Hmm?”

“I didn’t know chocolate could taste that good.”

“Mmhmm.”

Her eyes pop open to meet his, only to find Coulson’s gaze directed down at her breasts, which are sort of _even more_ on display as she leans forward towards him.

Slowly, he drags his eyes up to meet hers, pupils wide and dark. The look in his eye makes her shiver, makes her imagine that he could want her like she wants him.

Then he blinks, and it’s like he’s suddenly himself again.

“Worth a slice of pizza?”

“I suppose so,” she allows, as she sits back.

Coulson smirks at her and then gathers another bite, and she has to watch as he moans against the spoon. Her eyes lock onto his throat as he swallows, his tongue as he chases every last crumb of chocolate.

Yeah, she’s jealous of the spoon and also of the dessert, of anything that gets to melt on Coulson’s tongue like that.

Skye squeezes her thighs together, suddenly too aware of her arousal

She guesses it’s lucky that there are only, like, six bites on the plate, but every one of them is torture.

As he’s eating, the woman with the diamond necklace leaves the restaurant with her date, who rests a soft hand on the woman’s lower back.

She can’t remember the last time someone touched her like that.

And yeah, she’s jealous of everybody tonight, apparently.

 

* * *

They’re sipping coffee when she notices their man finally paying his check.

“I guess that means no more company here tonight, hmm?”

“Seems like it,” Coulson agrees. “Is Hunter in position to follow?”

Skye scratches behind her ear.

“He’s getting ready to leave,” Skye murmurs.

“Say it in spy talk,” Hunter requests, and she has to roll her eyes.

“The eagle is...paying the check.”

He laughs in her ear and Coulson smirks from across the table.

“I’m in position to follow,” Hunter replies.

“And May?”

“Mack and I are almost there,” May’s voice registers.

“Sounds good.”

May and Mack will stay until closing, to look for anything suspicious or anything that might suggest a drop.

“Was this the most boring undercover mission ever?”

“Possibly,” Coulson allows. “But boring is good.”

“Boring means we can go eat pizza, right?”

“Right.”

And then he holds up his left hand. The prosthetic is almost perfectly lifelike — so perfect you’d never be able to tell if you didn’t know — but he’s still uncomfortable with it. That much has been clear, which is why she doesn’t understand him calling attention to it now.

“What’s up?”

“I’m going to order you pizza on the spy watch Fitz designed for me.”

He’s not a little gleeful about it, like a kid with a cool new toy, and she can’t quite stop herself from grinning at him.

“Veggie?” He checks, as though she ever gets anything else.

“Yeah.”

She sips her coffee as he presses some buttons on his watch.

“That looks kind of complicated, I could just do it on my phone, you know.”

He raises an eyebrow at her.

“Pizza from a _spywatch_ , Skye,” he stage whispers, this look on his face like he’s twelve.

She laughs, then watches intently as he fumbles with pressing buttons on the small screen until he looks up at her triumphantly.

“It’ll be at the room in half an hour,” he announces.

“Too long,” she whines, mostly kidding, as she wiggles in her chair. She’s also still ridiculously turned on after watching him eat dessert, and if she has to sit across from him any longer, she’s going to say something she shouldn’t say.

“Are you that hungry?”

“ _Yes_ . And this dress is _really_ uncomfortable. Tell me there are bathrobes in the room.”

“I think so.”

She can’t quite read his expression — she does hope he’s not too horrified with her.

“Do you want to go ahead? I can meet you at the room.”

“I’m fine,” she tells him, waving him off. “I swear I’m not that unprofessional.”

“I’d never accuse you of being unprofessional,” Coulson tells her, voice serious enough that she knows he means it.

“I’m just...bored, maybe. Tell me something interesting.”

“Like what?” He asks, clearly amused.

“The last really good meal you had.”

“That would be interesting?”

Skye nods, watching as Coulson breaks into a discussion of somewhere in Portland, describing textures and flavors in a voice that sounds like sex.

It really doesn’t help with pushing down her arousal.

 

* * *

 

When they get to the hotel room, she finds the complimentary bathrobe and darts into the bathroom.

It’s not exactly the best plan, but it beats out sitting around in the hotel room in her too-tight dress, so she takes off the garment and hangs it up on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. And then, before she pulls on the robe, she slips off the thong she’s wearing as well.

She wants to be comfortable, after all, and it’s not like Coulson will know or care.

The robe is large and fluffy and soft, makes her feel like she’s covered from neck to calf in a comfortable blanket — she feels more covered than she did in the dress, for sure, so it’s easy not to think about it.

Instead, she walks into the main room to find Coulson, sans jacket and tie, lounging against the headboard of the giant king bed. The pizza has arrived while she was changing, and sits to his right while some sort of reality cooking show plays quietly on the television.

“You look comfortable,” he comments, smiling at her like looking comfortable is a good thing.

“I am,” she sighs. “I could hardly breathe in that thing.”

He lifts the pizza, offering the spot next to him on the bed, and she rushes towards him to grab the pizza and then sit down. With the pizza still in her lap, she opens the box and takes a slice.

It’s hot and cheesy and _good_.

“I’m sorry dinner wasn’t good for you,” Coulson offers, and she feels a twinge of self-consciousness again, at the idea that Coulson is watching her eat.

“It was fine,” she corrects him. “I get why people would go somewhere like that, at least. I just…”

“I understand.”

She nods and finishes her slice.

When she opens the box again, though, he reaches in to grab a piece, too, so Skye turns and sets the box on her nightstand — out of Coulson’s reach.

“I thought you were going to share.”

He sounds honestly hurt for a minute, and she has to look at him closely to decide that he’s not — he’s playing with her.

“I lied.”

He laughs at that and leans back against the headboard as she eats her second slice too quickly.

“And after I gave you a bite of my dessert.”

“It _was_ good,” she admits. “You can have my crust,” she offers, faux conciliatory.

Coulson laughs again, watches as she polishes off the pizza up to the crust.

“I don’t want your scraps.”

“You sure?”

She waves the crust in front of him for a moment before biting off one end as she holds his gaze, and it’s the weirdest staring contest she’s ever been involved in — eyes locked while she eats a piece of pizza crust.

At the third piece of pizza, Coulson starts to get insistent.

“Come on, Skye. Just give me a piece. _One_ piece.”

She looks at the slice she’s holding thoughtfully.

“What will you give me for it?”

“I _already_ gave you something for it,” he argues. “I already gave you non-refundable payment.”

She laughs, looks at him through her eyelashes to make sure he’s actually having fun like she is. He’s still smiling, at least.

“You can have a bite,” she offers, trying to sound reasonable.

“A bite,” he repeats, voice dripping with incredulity.

“Mmhmm, here,” she holds out the fresh slice towards him, edges folded up just enough that the point stays level at his mouth.

Coulson just looks at her in disbelief, but she can tell he’s planning something.

It’s actually a shock when he leans forward and closes his teeth around the end, as though he’s going along with it. Instead of taking a bite, though, he tugs backwards, taking the entire slice from her loose grip.

“Hey! What are you, a dog?”

He just laughs and grabs the slice by the crust, pulling back as he chews his bite and waves the rest of the slice at her — taunting.

It strikes her that he _really_ thinks she’ll ignore the taunt, and it’s the desire to shock him as much as the desire for her slice of pizza that makes her decide to act.

Before he has a chance to figure out what she’s got planned, Skye nearly jumps on top of him, pinning him backwards against the headboard so that he flails underneath her.

“Skye!”

In his shock, she easily pulls the slice of pizza from his hand and takes a bite, holding his eye as she chews.

Unlike him, though, she expects the retaliation — is fully prepared for it when he rolls them sideways so they end up flat on the bed. Instead of trying to yank the pizza from her hand, though, he just holds her arm steady and leans down to take another bite from her hand.

“Stop eating my pizza!”

Coulson laughs and rolls with it when she forces her way back on top, balancing over him precariously with her left hand by his head and her right holding the pizza off the duvet.

Before she can take another bite, though, she notices Coulson’s gaze drawn down her body to where the robe has totally gaped open.

His lips part, tongue swiping across his lower lip, and her whole lower body tightens at the sight.

“ _Fuck_ , Skye,” and it’s a groan, like a _sex_ groan, like a noise she’s never heard from him before and she really wants to hear again. “Are you _naked_ under that?”

She sits up awkwardly and pulls her robe closed with her left hand, but sitting up with any stability means putting weight on his lap.

Coulson groans again, and she can feel him — hard underneath her, hard between her legs.

And she should probably pinch herself because this can’t possibly be real.

“Jesus, Skye, you have to —” He takes a deep, slow breath like he’s coming apart underneath her. “You have to _move_.” His hips pulse up under her, but it must be involuntarily because his hands clench where he’s got them thrown up by his head.

And she suddenly feels sexy, like pinup girl sexy, sitting on top of Coulson with her robe peaking open and a slice of fucking pizza in her hand.

She tosses the remains of the pizza slice across the bed, where it lands easily on the box on her nightstand.

“ _Skye_ ,” he moans her name, and she never knew how much she needed to hear Coulson say her name _like that_. God, though, it sounds good. So good.

“You want me to move?”

It’s only a little bit conscious thought when she rocks her hips over his, but it’s like it drives him over the edge.

“Shit,” he grunts, sounding suddenly out of breath. “Shit, Skye, you —”

And then his fingers are prying apart her robe so the cool hotel room air hits her nipples, makes them harden further under his gaze.

He freezes as he takes her in, her total nudity above him.

It goes on way too long — him staring up at her — and it’s like her skin _aches_ for him, like her nipples keep pulling tighter and tighter in hopes that he’ll put his hands on her.

“Coulson,” she whispers, aware that she sounds two steps past desperate. “Coulson, _touch_ me.”

He swallows underneath her and nods.

“Are you sure? Is this…?”

“ _Yes_. Please”

She expects him to go for her boobs, but he surprises her by laying his hands low on her waist, above her hips.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he breathes as his hands slip up her torso, like he’s in awe of her, and it’s not fair how it makes her out of breath.

“ _Coul_ son,” she _whines_ his name and rocks her hips over him again, grinds down until she finds a good angle.

His fingers go from exploring her skin to gripping her, almost too hard.

“Tell me you want this?”

And he sounds so fucking pathetic, she doesn’t even know how to respond.

“Are you kidding me right now? I’ve wanted you _forever_.”

He shakes his head, like this can’t possibly be true.

“I’m too old for you.”

“I can’t sit through a nice dinner without begging for pizza,” she counters, because if they’re going to get into a ‘who isn’t good enough for whom’ here, she’s probably going to win.  

“I like that about you.”

“I like _you_.”

She’s surprised when his hands bypass her breasts altogether, instead sliding up the outside of her torso to behind her neck, so he can tug her down on top of him.

Their lips meet in a flurry of kisses — hard and desperate and pizza flavored and the best thing she’s ever felt.

He kisses exactly how she would have expected Coulson to kiss, had she ever let herself expect any kisses from Phil Coulson. His lips are soft, offering more than demanding, but with an edge of intensity that zings down her spine.

In between kisses, Coulson pushes her robe the rest of the way off, down her shoulders, so that she’s naked on top of him.

She returns the favor, fingers moving furiously down his shirt, undoing the tiny buttons as quickly as she can.

“This isn’t fair,” she mumbles into his mouth. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

“Suddenly you want to talk about what’s fair?”

His eyes are teasing, good natured, and she laughs as she sits up enough to tug his shirt out of his slacks — he helps her take it off and then pulls his t-shirt over his head.

“Oh,” she breathes at the sight of his chest underneath her. She wasn’t really prepared for how buff he is, muscle that she can’t stop herself from touching. Her eyes fall to the scar in the middle of his chest, over his heart, and she leans forward to rest her forehead there for a long moment.

“I can’t believe this is real,” Coulson whispers, like he’s afraid to disturb the moment.

“I know.”

She pulls back, but instead of kissing him again, she runs her mouth over his left nipple — the flat of her tongue and just a little bit of teeth and just a little bit of suction that leaves him bucking his hips underneath her, hands spread wide across her hips to press her down against him.

“Fuck, _Skye_.”

And yeah, she can’t believe this is real, that she gets to make him say her name _like that_ , in that way that she didn’t even know she needed to hear until a few minutes ago.

Keeping her movements slow and measured, a counterpoint to Coulson’s increasing desperation, she slides her mouth to his other nipple.

It’s shocking when he groans especially loudly and then flips them over, hovers over her for two seconds with hungry eyes and panted breaths before he returns the favor — mouth on her breasts as his hands coax her thighs apart.

He doesn’t spend long on her breasts; instead, he’s quick to work his way down her body, taking mouthfuls of skin in sucking kisses as he goes. When he’s positioned between her legs, though, mouth poised over the center of her as she writhes, he pauses.

“Coulson,” she groans, frustrated. “Why’d you stop?”

He grins up at her and then lays down on his stomach, hands pressed to her inner thighs, and it’s like he’s setting up camp between her legs.

She feels his fingers first, sliding from her thighs up to open her up — it makes her shiver, from being exposed, from feeling his breath against her clit.

She thinks for a moment that he’s going to say something — something big and important — as he looks at her from between her legs, but he just swallows and shakes his head.

And then he presses his tongue to her, a soft slow stroke that leaves her shuddering under his mouth.

There’s no way to keep track of what he does from there, just his tongue insistent but careful against her, coaxing her towards orgasm. All she can do is hold on, one hand pressed to the headboard above her, one hand pressed to his head — clutching at his hair even though it’s too short to grasp at.

“Coulson,” she whimpers, almost silent as she starts to get close, starts to feel herself tightening and shaking under him.

He redoubles his pace, pushing harder and faster as the first wave hits and she digs her fingers harder into his scalp, pushing harder until she collapses underneath him.

“God,” she murmurs. “I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be so good at that.”

Coulson drags his lips across her lower belly, cleaning off his face.

“Why not?” He sounds kind of offended.

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “Maybe I couldn’t imagine you getting messy.”

He smirks as he crawls over her, but instead of settling between her legs, she feels his fingers press against her again.

Her mouth drops open as he pushes two fingers inside of her, leaving her writhing underneath him. His lips close over hers as he crooks his fingers and thrusts somehow _exactly_ right, so she’s suddenly shaking and grinding up against his hand.

She calls out his name this time, one loud noise that punctuates her quiet as she loses it underneath him — she comes with her mouth open under his, her arms wrapped too tight around his neck.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he whispers against her chin as he lays kisses there and then along her jaw towards her ear.

Before he can continue, she pulls his mouth back to hers and kisses him, deep and slow.

“I should have known you’d be good,” she corrects her earlier statement, almost unintelligible with his lips smashed to hers. “The way you were licking your spoon during dessert was obscene.”

He lets out a loud guffaw, like she’s shocked him.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

She starts working on his belt as he hovers over her.

“What would I have said? ‘Hey, Coulson, could you please not enjoy your dessert so much? I’m messing up my panties.’?”

He laughs and kisses her as he helps her push his pants down his thighs.

“Is that why you took them off?”

“Maybe,” she allows, coyly raised eyebrow as she manages to hook her toes into the waistband of his pants and boxers, to push them the rest of the way down his legs.

“Condom?”

“We don’t need it unless you —”

“No,” he answers, shaking his head as he looks down at her, down between their bodies as she wraps her legs around his naked hips.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Skye voices, and Coulson’s eyes race back up to hers.

“Me, either,” he answers, and his lips curve into a wide grin.

It’s a joyful thing as he pushes inside of her, smile pressed to smile, until she’s gasping in pleasure instead of smiling.

She’s unintelligible, clinging to him and fighting for breath as they move together, but Coulson is talkative with his head dropped beside hers and his lips almost at her ear.

“You feel so good,” he pants, breaths and words that make her neck erupt in goosebumps as they become less coherent and more grunted. “So good. Fuck. Skye.”

They come together, sweat and grunts and their names passed between kisses, and she almost dozes under the easy pressure of Coulson’s body half-collapsed on top of hers.

“You gonna share your pizza with me now?” He mumbles next to her ear, and Skye giggles sleepily.

“Probably,” she agrees. “Is that why you came onto me? To get me to share?”

“ _You_ came on to _me_ ,” he corrects her.

“You were the one like, ‘Oh, Skye, are you fucking _naked_?’”

“You _flashed_ me.”

“I didn’t flash you. I had a wardrobe malfunction.”

“You sat on my cock.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“So, you came onto me,” Coulson clarifies, and she gets the impression that this might actually be important to him.

“Does it matter?”

“I always told myself that if something were to ever happen, you’d have to be the one that started it.”

“You didn’t push me, Coulson. This is...good, right?”

“Yeah, it is,” he answers with a soft smile and she squeezes her limbs around him and rolls them over. He slips out of her as they move, and she can feel the mess between them — she’s really thankful for hotel sheets that you don’t plan to actually sleep on.

“Okay,” she sits up on top of him and reaches for the pizza. “You can have your own slice. But only because I really _really_ like you.”

She pulls out a slice, not really warm and gooey anymore, but it's not like that's ever stopped her, and offers the end of it to Coulson. He bites down, and smiles as he chews.   
  
"Hearty," he teases through a mouthful of cheese and veggies, smiling and naked on the bed with her. 

Skye curls into him as she finishes the rest of her pizza.

 


End file.
